I read an article yesterday about President elect Biden and his wife visiting the graves of his deceased former wife and their baby girl who died in an automobile accident. And then, despite my better judgment, I clicked on the comment section—the Dante’s Inferno of the internet.
“He deserved it.”
“Why is this news?”
“Karma, serves him right.”
“Libtard.”
And I thought, “Who are you people?"
Years ago, I wrote an article about my daughter going through a difficult phase. It was about choosing battles and understanding that little people are human. It was benign mama sharing stuff. While reading the comments, I was stunned to read, “You and your daughter are c*nts. You are what is wrong with America!” My daughter was nine. It was in all caps. It always is.
Who are you people?
Another recently read article was about a woman in prison with a pre-existing condition. Her mother was begging authorities to let her go because of the risk of her contracting Covid. She was there on a parole violation. I clicked on the comments.
“She deserves to die.”
“If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”
“Sorry, not sorry.”
Who are you people?
It’s like if all the bullies from middle school got together and learned how to type just to beat up people online.
I will often click on the profile of the person spewing hateful verbiage. It’s slightly stalker-ish, but I want to know, to understand. Do they have children, pets? Are they a Russian bot named Todd Smith with a faux picture of a polite looking Marine standing next to a yacht? Are they real?
I want to know, “Who are you people?”
But they just look normal, someone you’d stand next to in line at the grocery store. They would probably let you go first if you only had a couple items and talk about the weather. They have family photos with babies and cute Pomeranians and their favorite sports team. Go Hawks.
But who are you people? Really.
Why, when reading an article about a man grieving his dead wife and baby, do you put hands to keyboard and feel obligated to say “You deserved the worse possible fate in the world?”
At what point, as we sit behind screens do we stop being human? At what point did we collectively decide we have permission to be awful, only because we are hidden? Like a child playing hide and seek, covering their eyes while in plain site. We can still see you. We see you.
Who are you people?
I’ve done it. Not to this extreme, but have felt justified in tearing someone’s argument apart, breaking down what I felt was flawed thinking or logic and maybe in the process breaking them down too. I have wanted to be right more than I have wanted to be kind. I have beaten people up with words, not intentionally but because in a furied moment of rapid typing, I felt superior. I was right dammit!
It is a cowardice battle fought outside the ring, without the real blows of a … 3, 2, 1, you’re down, but a winner declared with the most likes. No boxing gloves, just words and pajamas. And maybe that hurts more.
In trying so hard to get my point across, to be right, I have stepped on cyber toes, but hurt real hearts. And I’m sorry.
Maybe the real question is, “Who am I?”
This disconnect, that space between us and the rest of the world is fragile, exposed, vulnerable. Before we choose to enter it, to meet a stranger, to engage, we need to pretend that space doesn’t exist. That person is there, in the room, in their PJ’s, a dog on their lap, kids in the background and they are just waiting for a kind response.
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